


aurë entuluva

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Children of Húrin - JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Cousin Incest, Cousins, Fluff, Multi, Sibling Bonding, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12012849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: A Hadorian happily-ever-after, improbably starring Túrin, Niënor, and Tuor.





	aurë entuluva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jubah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubah/gifts).



> I worked the various scraps of "what if Hadorians got to be happy and Ulmo's blessings outweighed Morgoth's curse" together for House of Hador week on Tumblr, in ... uh, July of 2014. The fic was really written for my friend Juliana/crocordile, however :)

The Doriathrin scout was tall and very lean—starving, perhaps, but he walked proudly behind the soldiers that led him to the King, and looked interestedly around. 

Where the various factions of the court quarrelled over an intruder finding his way to the gate, and how trustworthy this scout might be, and where had Doriath been in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Túrin snapped out,

“Who are you?”

The scout only laughed, voice ringing out like the untroubled waters of his childhood. The he tossed back his hood, revealing a woman’s face, lovely but not elvish, young rather than ageless. She yanked her long hair out from under her collar, light, but with none of Orodreth’s or Finduilas’ shimmering fairness, only a warm sunny gold. He thought again to his childhood, to his kin, their hair gleaming butter-yellow in the sun, so bright beside Túrin’s and his mother’s and Aunt Rían’s. 

“Adaneth,” said Orodreth, face stern, “you have entered this kingdom under false pretenses, in the garb of an Elf of Doriath, and—”

“Adaneth I am, but in truth I do come from Doriath,” the woman said defiantly, “and all that I wear was given to me by my friends. Your kingdom is great but I was not drawn here to look upon your majesty, lord of Nargothrond. I search only for my own kin.”

“Your kin? There are no—”

Belatedly, it seemed, all eyes went to Túrin.

She flung back her golden head. “I have come seeking my brother, Túrin son of Húrin. It is said that he dwells in these parts.”

“Túrin son of Húrin?” said Orodreth. “We have heard of his doings, it is true, but—”

Túrin scarcely heard him. He stepped forward, away from his friends and brothers in arms among the Eldar, ignoring the bewildered gazes that fell upon him. When he spoke, his voice cracked like a boy’s.

“Niënor?”

* * *

They escaped the ruin of Nargothrond together; though they never spoke of it, they often wondered what would have happened that day if they had been alone. He would have rather battled with his enemies to the bitter end—she would have rather screamed her defiance to the dragon—but together, they feared for one another, and fled.

Or so they always thought of it, though nobody else said so. Indeed, Finduilas always swore afterwards that they had fought their way out of the city with great valour, and led her and the refugees to what passed for safety. But they were the children of Húrin. They had run with enemies behind them. They had  _fled_. There could be no other word for it; what did they care for the sophistry of Elves?

Their duty to the survivors of Nargothrond discharged, Túrin and Niënor wandered far, into strange lands, hoping hopelessly to outrun the curse. Yet even as their consciences flogged them onwards, a strange contentment began to touch them. Separated for all of Niënor’s life, they depended on each other now, hunting together, eating together, fighting any enemies that crossed their path. She was fierce as a daughter of Haleth, and there was no one Túrin would have preferred at his side. And in quieter moments, they sat under the stars and exchanged stories of their severed lives, of their father and mother. It was comforting, too, to know that Morwen was safe in Doriath, even as unwary travellers fled from the tall dark swordsman and golden wild woman far away.

One day they caught sight of a clear, bright stream. A sprawling Easterling camp had settled along it. Normally, they preferred to avoid such large groups of people, not testing their ill fortune against unfavourable odds, but they were thirsty enough to creep closer. As they did, they heard men screaming.

Others were shouting to one another, running hither and yon, but beginning to coalesce into small groups of men, women, and children. Some seemed to be fellow Easterlings, but more were Southrons or Edain. They scattered out from the camp, many headed past the edge of the forest where Túrin and his sister were hiding.

Niënor quietly fitted an arrow to her bow, given to her long ago by the Elves of Doriath. She did not often miss. 

Túrin lifted a hand.  _Not yet_ , he mouthed, and stepped out just as the escapees ran into the forest. They froze. This close, he could see that only two of them were armed, and those with rusty swords they handled poorly. All were ragged, most hunched and worn with long labour. They stared in horror or glanced over their shoulders, but none attempted to run back; none seemed even to consider it.

His mouth went dry.

“Whence come you, kinsmen?” he said, keeping his voice calm and clear, his hands away from his sword. “What has happened here?”

A man gave a sobbing sigh of relief, his sword clattering to the ground.

“One of the others,” said a woman, in lilting Sindarin rather than Taliska, the words hesitant. “He found a sword. Started killing the masters. We ran.”

Niënor’s eyes went wide.

“Do you have any provisions?” Túrin said. “The land is harsh this way—”

“Not harsher than the masters,” said a short, dark-haired man. His gaze was fixed on Túrin’s sword. “If you are truly a friend to our people, you will let us pass and seek our fortunes.”

Túrin looked from one to the other. Then he sighed. “Niënor, how much can we spare?”

She emerged from the trees with her bow slung over her shoulder, their bags of food in her hand.

“It isn’t much,” she told the Sindarin-speaking woman, but held it out. “There is some game and berries here. And—” she lifted her waterskin off her belt. 

“Niënor—”

She turned a fierce gaze on him. “We can share yours.”

Túrin opened his mouth, then shut it again. He contented himself with telling the others, “Keep it filled. Thirst will kill you faster than hunger. And if the Valar have any care for the children of Men, may they watch over you!”

Niënor smiled, touching her bow. “And perhaps we can help your friend.”

The former slaves thanked them and moved past them, into the forest. Túrin and Niënor walked on, pausing to drink by the stream, then carefully made their way towards the camp. The screaming had died away, a grim silence falling over the whole area, broken only by their own footsteps and quiet murmurs to each other, and the squawking of river-birds. As they drew near, they saw guards lying sprawled over the ground, throats cut. 

Túrin and Niënor looked at each other. He pulled out his sword.

They continued onwards, seeing only the bodies of dead men—no women or children, just men—as they passed. 

“Perhaps he ran away?” Niënor whispered.

But at the center of the camp, a lone man stood, wiping his sword off on an Easterling banner. He was tall and fair as Niënor, hair lank and muddied, but still bright under the sun. Túrin tightened his grip on his sword.

“ _Suilad!_ “ Niënor called out.

The man spun around, brandishing his still-bloodied weapon, then lowered it, staring at them in astonishment. Túrin could almost have done the same. Bearded and dirty though the stranger was, he carried himself as proudly as any Elf-lord, and his sword like a victor of many battles. And the resemblance to Niënor did not end at the colour of his hair. His wide blue eyes, the shape of his face and line of his nose, all were so much like hers that  _he_ might have been her brother, rather than Túrin.

"Who are you?” the man demanded, just before Túrin did.

Túrin hesitated, deciding between pseudonyms, but his sister said:

“I am Niënor, daughter of Húrin of the House of Hador, and Morwen Eledhwen. This is my brother Túrin, renowned in many lands, heir to Dor-lómin and Ladros. And who are you?”

The man burst out laughing. Túrin’s and Niënor’s eyes narrowed, but he then cried out,

"We meet at last!”

Still smiling, he knelt before an astonished Túrin.

“Few remember the lordship of Dor-lómin and Ladros, but it shall not be forgotten while I live! I am Tuor son of Huor, the brother of your great father, and you, Túrin and Niënor, are my nearest kin in this world. My sword is yours, cousin!”

* * *

Niënor could scarcely believe her eyes when the stranger, a man who had decimated a whole camp of Easterlings, all but flung himself at Túrin’s feet, holding up his cheaply-made sword and swearing allegiance. He gazed at Túrin and then Niënor as she had always imagined their forefathers gazing at the first rising of the Sun. It should not have compared to the horrors she had seen. Yet her heart broke a little at the wild joy in his face. Had he known any of his own people?—Ever?

Tuor, she thought tentatively. Tuor son of Huor. The son of my father’s brother, son of my mother’s kinswoman. My cousin, twice over.

Niënor had never seen her father, or Uncle Huor, or even Aunt Rían. Everyone said she looked like the people of the House of Hador, like Húrin, but she could not know for herself. Now she saw her own wide blue eyes gazing out of a dirty bearded face, light hair caked with mud and sweat as hers was, undoubtedly as yellow-gold as hers when clean. Even with his ragged clothes loose on his frame—the Easterlings plainly had not fed him well—he was broader than Túrin, and even taller. Her own build in man’s form, she thought. How many times had she heard  _Húrin in woman’s form_? Suddenly she had a picture of her father in her head, a fierce shining version of Tuor. 

She could have loved him for that alone.

“I accept your sword," Túrin said, sounding startled, as well he might. “But still more would we accept your companionship. Ours is a hard life for two alone.” He pulled Tuor to his feet, and their cousin laughed sheepishly.

"I know it well,” he said.

He had flinched a little when Túrin grasped his shoulder. Niënor studied it for some hurt, but saw nothing. Bruises under the sleeve, perhaps.

They gathered what food they could from the bodies and the camp, exchanging their stories. Túrin, however, encouraged Tuor more than he spoke of himself. 

Tuor was young. Her age? In any case, his story was considerably shorter and less involved than Túrin’s. Aunt Rían died of grief not long after his birth, he grew up among Sindarin Elves—Niënor started at  _that_ —and though longing to leave and avenge his people, had been separated from them by mischance and enslaved by the Easterlings. They knew who he was, he said.

Niënor shuddered.

Over the first few weeks, they grew used to one another. Tuor seemed accustomed to cooperating with others and following another’s lead, and had plainly heard of Túrin after some fashion. He looked at him with admiration even before they fought together. But he was also nervous around him, holding himself as stiffly as a soldier, jumping at the slightest sound. He calmed around Niënor—perhaps because of her face, perhaps because she was less overpowering than Túrin could often be. But he flinched when she brushed him, too.

Niënor pretended not to notice.

He was oddly prudish, sitting beside pools with his back turned and eyes squeezed shut, blushing bright red when he saw Niënor walking back to camp, even wrapped in her blanket. Since he was no better with Túrin, she couldn’t think it her sex. 

And she liked him. Despite the gleam in his eyes when he talked of vengeance, he was an accommodating companion, arguing his own opinions but willing to be persuaded by others—except when it came to fresh water—and courteous and considerate. He listened to her quietly much of the time, talked eagerly with her at others, even of inconsequential matters, and generally obeyed Túrin’s orders without question. Despite his size, he moved quietly in the woods when they scouted together.

Niënor made a point of touching him now and again. She would flick water at him, laughing at how utterly  _prissy_ he could be, and poke him in the side, feeling the twitch of his muscles as he flinched. He tried to pass it off as ticklishness; she just shook her head. But it grew less pronounced over time, as he grew accustomed to Túrin clapping a hand on his shoulder or Niënor silently warning him—hand against his chest—as they slipped through the forests, casually brushing by him or tugging at him when she had something to say.

She’d always been demonstrative; she suspected that he had too, long ago. 

One time when they were scouting together, they stumbled across a cache of weapons and food—left, they concluded, by some of the Noldor who had once lived in those parts. When she caught sight of the waybread half-concealed by swords and spears, she impulsively hugged him. Tuor stiffened, but didn’t move away, and after a moment he awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“That will keep us from going hungry for months,” he said when she released him. Then, peering down, his eyes lit up. “Do you see that, cousin? It is not all swords and spears.”

There was one axe, of the same astoundingly fine work as most Noldorin craft—whatever else one might say about them, she thought, remembering the tales she had heard in Doriath. Tuor gladly cast his sword aside and took up the axe, carrying it from that day forward. He had been deadly enough with the sword; but with the axe, he was a true son of Huor.

He’d travelled with them over two months the first time he embraced her of his own volition. They were in a particularly difficult country and scavenging for roots when by some chance they caught sight of a stag, which they quickly brought down. Tuor laughed then wrapped his great arms about her, her feet lifting off the ground. 

It didn’t make her think of her father, of some might-have-been. It was just Tuor.

* * *

Tuor followed Túrin and Niënor’s lead in almost everything. Mostly Túrin’s: he was the eldest by a long ways, the most seasoned as both warrior and outlaw, and naturally bolder and more decisive than either of the others. Tuor and Niënor, pleasant and accommodating by temper, naturally trooped after him, talking easily to one another. But Niënor had spirit too, and when she put her foot down, Tuor found it difficult to gainsay her. 

He only insisted on one thing. Instinct told him to stay by clean water. Túrin and Niënor preferred to avoid it, since the Easterling camps often gathered around water, but Tuor refused to leave it for more than a few hours. Whether guided by instincts of their own or simply indifferent, they agreed once it becomes evident that Tuor would not be swayed. By chance or fate, nobody ever found them.

 _And_ they got to bathe regularly.

Túrin and Niënor generally bathed together. Tuor, forgetting that they too were raised by Elves, assumed it was a Mannish thing, or that they travelled together too long and too recklessly to have much care for modesty. He himself either closed his eyes, waiting for them to finish, or turned away, heading back towards the camp until they weree done. Even seeing Niënor wrapped in one of the thin blankets she used to dry herself made him blush.

She only laughed at him.

“You’re practically my brother, too,” she said, flicking water at his hair. 

Tuor didn’t have the heart to tell her that was part of what made it so awkward. She was his  _cousin_. If he’d ever had a sister, she would have looked like Niënor. Or like Túrin, if she’d taken after Mother, and he avoided Túrin until he was dressed, too. 

They were courteous enough to stay away while Tuor was washing. But all three stood in the rivers and streams together, peering into the water as Tuor and Niënor combed out their long fair hair, and Túrin shaved. It was as close to a mirror as they were going to get, but their images shivered in the current, Tuor’s and Niënor’s reflections blurring together. He couldn’t help but stare, fascinated, at how much her woman’s face looked like his.

He had scarcely encountered other Men at all until the Easterlings captured him, and certainly not any other members of his own house. He had never known anyone who looked remotely like him, not ever, and now he could even see traces of resemblance in Túrin, about the cheekbones and mouth. But Niënor—he could hardly help staring at her, sometimes, could hardly keep himself from laying his callused palm against her gleaming hair.

Túrin reminded him oddly of Annael; he was tall, almost as tall as Tuor, and leaner than either of the others. Partly, Tuor suspected, that was because Túrin insisted on eating Tuor’s and Niënor’s leavings, and would simply refuse if he thought either of them hadn’t taken enough—but mostly just his build. There was the thick dark hair and shining grey eyes, too, but it was more than that: the cast of his features, the way he carried himself, the …  _something_. 

“The Elves thought so too,” Niënor told him. “They called him Adanedhel.” She paused. “What did your Elves call you?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Tuor.”

* * *

After the first few weeks, when they all got along easily, had more than enough food, and all but coasted on the happiness of reunion, Túrin became unaccountably irritable. He and Tuor quarrelled over the water, he and Niënor over scouting and food. Tuor and Niënor, offended, retreated to the riverside, dangling their feet in the water and talking quietly together. Perhaps, they decided, it was the unfamiliarity—Túrin and Niënor hadn’t been around other people in so long. Neither of them pointed out that Niënor herself seemed, if anything, better-tempered than usual.

But she was nearly as startled as Túrin when Tuor offered to leave.

Túrin, with a look at once hard and faintly puzzled, said that was nonsense. 

His mood seemed to improve, however, and afterwards, Niënor thought he addressed Tuor as  _cousin_ more often. In any case, he began to insist on the three of them sparring together; he would help Tuor with his new axe—Tuor was very good, but he didn’t have Túrin’s experience—and correct Niënor’s grip on the long daggers he’d found for her. They practiced archery together, though he chiefly left that to Niënor and Tuor, who had more need of it.

As he watched them, expression blank, the idea suddenly came into Niënor’s mind that he might be jealous. She almost instantly scoffed at herself—Túrin,  _Túrin_ with Lalaith permanently enshrined in his heart, jealous? But the more she thought about it, the more she felt convinced that she’d actually stumbled on the truth. For months, she and Túrin had been everything to each other, with no friends left, no allies, scarcely any family. And now there was another, more like her, closer in age—it made an odd sort of sense, petty though it seemed from  _Túrin_ , of all people.

Niënor felt at once gratified and annoyed. She decided that she’d wait for him to get over it; he seemed to be trying, anyway. But despite her resolution, she couldn’t help making an effort to sit and talk with her brother when Tuor was gone, and insisted on leaving the men to themselves now and then. When she reminded Túrin that Tuor had never known any men but Elves and slavemasters, never had either guide or companion or friend from their people, of how much Tuor admired him, Túrin actually flushed—and took their cousin under his wing even more. Niënor smiled to herself, satisfied.

One warm evening, she lay on her blanket, staring at the stars while Túrin and Tuor practiced with their weapons. She hadn’t lived among the Noldor long enough to learn their names for everything, and she could only guess at the right translations. 

“Menel,” she whispered to herself, and frowned. “Menelmehtar? Menel—”

“Menelmacar,” said Túrin, walking up from behind her. 

Niënor, sleepy but not especially tired, smiled lazily up at him. “And that there? Edegil?”

“The Valacirca,” he said, dropping to sit beside her. Niënor glanced back, and saw Tuor hovering a short distance behind. 

“Do you know the Noldorin names?” she asked.

“No,” said Tuor, walking over. “Annael didn’t much care for them.” He glanced at them, Niënor lying down with her head against her arms, Túrin sitting beside her, leaning back on his hands. Tuor gave one of his quick smiles and sat on the very edge of the blanket, on Túrin’s right. “Menelvagor is  _Menelmacil_ , you said?”

“Menelmacar," Túrin said.

“ _Menelmacar. Valacirca_. And what about those?” He pointed up at four brilliant stars, placed in a rough square. 

"Anarríma. And there is Wilwarin, the butterfly, and Soronúmë. And there you can see Alcarinquë shining—”

Niënor and Tuor bombarded him with questions for almost an hour, repeating the names after him. By the end, they were all sprawled out on Niënor’s blanket, with Túrin’s lying over them—Tuor had grabbed it when the night grew colder. Niënor gave a soft laugh as a snore from Tuor interrupted Túrin’s answer to her last question, then fell asleep herself. 

Túrin, listening to the living breaths of his sister and cousin, gazed at the stars a minute more, the symbols of hope Elbereth had placed in the sky. Then he glanced back down to earth, at the golden heads leaning against either shoulder, Tuor sprawled out with an arm flung over Túrin’s chest, Niënor huddled against his side, fingers curled into his tunic.

Túrin smiled.


End file.
